


get down, baby (fly high)

by waved



Series: this world dont feel alright [1]
Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Actual Arguing, Angry Lesbians, Attempted Backstory, Bad Driving, Banter, F/F, First Meetings, Illegal Activities, Lots Of Gay Bickering, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-06 22:19:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waved/pseuds/waved
Summary: She rattles her cuffs, pulling slightly, and edges forward into Hurley's personal space. "So, what, you fuck around to catch perps now?Professional.""As you can see," Hurley says, gesturing between the two of them. "No fucking around wasdone."She shrugs, far too casual for the situation she's put Sloane in. "Any case, nice to finally meet'cha, Raven."





	1. riot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lesbians

It takes Sloane a moment — a long, painful moment — to realize she's looking at Officer Hurley.

 _Hurley,_ of all women she could have picked up. She was on the slight side of drunk, more so buzzed if anything, and she had been adamant on getting the cute, curly-headed piece she saw across the dark, crowded room of the speakeasy. Officer Hurley, alone and looking bored at the bar, had an unmistakable aura of pure _wildness_ about her, and Sloane couldn't deny herself such a treat as her.

So she swaggered over, more concentration on her heeled steps than she would have liked, and ordered a drink, sidling into the seat beside the halfling.

"You want anything, honey?" she had asked, turning a sickly smile that bared her sharp teeth. It worked for some, less for others, but she bet that canines were something this freckled love letter could jive with. "It's on me. Anythin' you want."

The girl seemed to catch on almost immediately.

"I've already had a few," she said; her voice was meek, but the subtle curve of her lips, the hint of teeth on her lower lip, suggested something far from modesty. "Anything, though?" A pause. The girl tugged on a strand of Sloane's hair, pulling it loose from her unraveling ponytail. Sloane barely managed to nod.

"I'd like to see your place."

And that had been Sloane's stupid, irreversible mistake.

She took Hurley on a detour, a few blocks past the high rise she put her shit to the wagon garage she nearly lived in. Hurley seemed like the adventurous type, and it's not like Sloane wasn't _completely correct_ — she just wasn't expecting the law enforcement part. And of course, well. The thrill Sloane devoted her life to, the very same one she intended to let Hurley be a part of, just so happened to be illegal.

Sloane showed the girl her wagon, her goddamn _pride and joy._

"Do you compete?" she had asked innocuously, the fucking _lich._

And Sloane, mind abuzz with shitty alcohol and the presence of someone so otherworldly _interesting,_ opened her fucking mouth.

She said, "You know the Raven?" Hurley had grinned, shit-eating and wide.

Sloane barely had time to gloat that _she_ was the Raven before Hurley came up to her, close and close and _close,_ nearly nose to nose if Hurley hadn't been so short, but they were breathing the same air, definitely.

"Take me on a joyride?" she said, eyelids dipping, and Sloane's mouth went dry. Her eyelashes were so long, casting slight shadows on her freckled cheeks despite the low light of the garage, and this _girl,_ so forward, was intoxicating.

"I'll take you on one right now," Sloane whispered, and Hurley was kissing her before Sloane got the chance to, rising on the balls of her feet as Sloane crouched slightly in response. Hurley's hands were all over Sloane, running down her back, gripping her waist, drawing her arms forward to —

And then Sloane heard a click. Hurley had pulled away, grinning, and Sloane was handcuffed.

"Officer Hurley, at your service," she said with a sharp pat on Sloane's cheek as she unwound herself from the half-elf.

Sloane felt something akin to ice water run down her back, a sharpness that sobered her, cleared her hazy-at-the-edge vision, and left her panicked.

Gods. She spent most of her life on the fucking track, running from competition and cops alike, and now that she found a little dove to fuck, she turned back on her with horns and teeth, smiling all the while.

"Are you fucking _kidding,"_ she bites out. She rattles her cuffs, pulling slightly, and edges forward into Hurley's personal space. "So, what, you fuck around to catch perps now? _Professional."_

"As you can see," Hurley says, gesturing between the two of them. "No fucking around was _done."_ She shrugs, far too casual for the situation she's put Sloane in. "Any case, nice to finally meet'cha, Raven."

The name sends a shiver down Sloane's spine.

"Shut the fuck up," she snarls, but Hurley's smile is enough to quiet her.

* * *

Sloane finds herself in Hurley's office. It's plain — no pictures, barely any paperwork (though Sloane sees _something_ peek out between her drawers), nothing to suggest that Hurley's anything but a street-wanderer. There's no sign of desk jockey anywhere in those petite bones of hers.

There is, however, a glass vase. There's a single white lily in it, slightly wilting, the tips of it turning an ugly bruised brown. The roots are still attached, like Hurley had ripped the thing from the dirt and stuck it right in without regard. _No regard_ seems to be her modus operandi, in any case.

Sloane is stuck there, handcuffed to the chair in front of Hurley's desk, for _three hours._ She doesn't know what the fuck the halfling is doing — all she knows is the tightness in her gut, her _fear,_ and how foreign that is. Sloane doesn't do fear, not since she was a kid. She's long since tampered down that part of her. Vulnerability isn't possible.

When Hurley comes back, red in the face, Sloane is fidgeting in her seat, anxious and sore.

Hurley's seething slightly, an unpleasant snarl that mars her youthful beauty.

"They don't fucking _believe_ me," she hisses, slamming a fist on her desk. Sloane flinches. "I catch the fucking Raven—" She spares a glance to Sloane and her lips turn up, barely perceptible but Sloane's eyebrows raise in spite of herself. "—and they think I'm just another gods-damn useless halfling on the team, like that one case I got done _by my fucking self_ was a crack shot. A fucking lucky hit."

She sighs deeply, unclenching her hand with a seeming Herculean effort. Sloane remembers the papers, the massive press Hurley got because she cracked a case barely covered. She was paraded for a hot moment before she was dropped unceremoniously. Nothing came from her, because all her achievements were credited to someone else — a higher up, someone who barely breathed on the case, someone who felt undermined. Hurley was left in the dust, it seemed.

Now, though, she's flashing Sloane a toothy grin, a total flip from the grimace she wore just minutes ago.

"So I've made an executive decision," she says. Sloane rises, just slightly. "I'm gonna let you—"

 _"Uncuff me,"_ Sloane barks, barely letting Hurley finish, and the halfling chuckles, walking around to click open the cuffs. Sloane rubs her wrists gingerly, wanting to leer at the officer, but finding herself unable to.

"You've got some conditions to meet, though," Hurley sniffs.

"Fuck off."

"Don't be that way! Simple stuff. Real simple." She's smiling, she hasn't _stopped_ smiling, and it's driving Sloane up the wall. She can see pink gums above slightly yellowed, blunt teeth, a hint of tongue between a gap in her two front incisors. Sloane's heart starts up an intoxicated beat, thrumming so wildly she feels she may pass out.

And then something clicks. She feels herself choke.

"How come you didn't just _show_ them I'm here?" she asks, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand to wipe away the spit she so inelegantly coughed up. She frowns when she spots the black lipstick that smears off; she's a little nervous to get out of here looking as she is. She has a reputation to uphold, _obviously._ "Wouldn't it be so much easier for you to just — you know, bring me in, not police me to your fucking office? I'm a wagon racer. Fuck's _sake."_

At this, Hurley's grin only goes wider, but there's a malicious glint in her eyes.

"They didn't believe me," she says, like she did before, only slower; it's like she's placating a child, and that has Sloane prickling. "If they think I'm incapable, _fuck them."_

Sloane laughs. Despite the ache behind her eyes and the weariness in her limbs, she laughs, and the sensation is startling. After being arrested, of all things, this woman makes her feel so unnaturally at ease.

"So, what are your prereqs?" Sloane inquires, lifting a playful eyebrow. "Let me know so I can let myself get caught instead if I need to."

Hurley gives a laugh of her own, tan skin flushing prettily under her freckles. When she levels her gaze with Sloane, her golden eyes glint, dangerous and bright.

"Teach me how to race," she says. Sloane nearly forgets how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments/kudos get me whipped into shape. put a sigil on a rock and throw it into the ocean if that will work better for u. ill get it.


	2. have some love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hit the gas and go," she instructs vaguely. "All you need to do is keep driving, turn, swerve when necessary, and I'll take care of everyone around us."
> 
> Hurley turns to give her a soft, incredulous smile. "You're a whack job," she says fondly. Sloane swallows around the stone in her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy gf day heres some sad girls!!! unbetad, so please lmk of there's mistakes  
> also hey some nsfw and drug use in this one!

Hurley lets Sloane leave without ceremony.

It's a little shocking, really — the officer doesn't so much as walk Sloane to the door, giving her a shove with that ever-present Cheshire grin and telling her to leave. She doesn't even tell her when she can expect her; Sloane doesn't know if she'll see her again later that day, or after a week, or even longer than that.

There's a pull in Sloane's gut when she thinks of never seeing Hurley again. It's a completely unfounded worry — she knows Hurley has to be a woman of her word, and the idea of Sloane not getting up to something illegal is laughable.

Still.

She still remembers the scent of her, the warmth of her mouth, that fucking insufferable _smile_ of hers that makes some long-dead thing deep inside Sloane flutter back to life.

"Bye _bye,"_ Hurley had sung, still in the comfort of her desk chair, waving her pudgy fingers in a mocking farewell as Sloane pulled on her balaclava. Not her most inconspicuous, but it was all she had to cover her tired, hungover appearance. She'd certainly worn flashier things in her life.

* * *

Sloane goes home. She twists through back alleys, huffing when she passes the bar she met Hurley in. There she was, hoping to get laid and release the _months_ of pent-up sexual frustration she'd ignored since she started racing, and she had ended up arrested instead.

She pets the hood of her wagon affectionately, running loving fingers over the feathers she spent painstaking hours engraving into the metal. This thing had won her first race, and every other she had entered.

She peeks under the hood — _just in case_ — and when she doesn't immediately notice anything suspicious, she falls into the cot she stuffed in a convenient corner. It's not the most comfortable, but the rough canvas reminds her of a lonesome yet fulfilling part of her life, roaming and pillaging just to survive. The smell is heavy, like rain and mud, and there's something else that Sloane doesn't remember, something floral and almost _hot—_

A jolt runs through her as she recognizes the scent as Officer Hurley.

(The halfling had collapsed in the bed moments after cuffing Sloane, stretching her limbs like she was in a luxury spa. Sloane had refused to budge, and while Hurley was almost absurdly strong, Sloane beat her in height, and managed to plant herself just in that respect. So Hurley cuffed her to a chair and the girl proceeded to take a catnap. It wasn't until Sloane's knees were about to give out that Hurley was able to move her.)

Sloane presses her pillow to her face, breathing deep, and her hand moves to rest between her thighs.

She focuses on Hurley's flushed face after she kissed her as she slips her fingers below the waistband of her pants; the visions she conjures are blurry with alcohol from the night before, but she can still recall Hurley's hands on her. It's all she can do to muffle her gasps into her pillow.

She imagines running fingers through Hurley's hair, open mouths and tongues and fire, rough hands and nails in her hips and she remembers the way Hurley said her moniker, _Raven,_ the way her lips formed the word, and Sloane manages to change the pace of her hand incrementally before she cums like a hormonal teenager.

Her legs are trembling almost uncontrollably, and she's heaving against the pillow, a spot of drool on the cover. Her eyes are still wrenched shut, but she doesn't remember when she closed them. She can still pick up the scent of cumin when she takes her hand from her pants and wipes it on her sheets.

 _"Fuck,"_ she says emphatically, letting the sound melt into the high roof, and rolls over onto her side. Her skin feels prickly, electric currents in the pit of her stomach, and she allows the pleasant drift before her abdomen tenses.

She just jerked off to _Hurley_ of the _Goldcliff Militia_ and she very nearly regrets it. But then her mind drifts back to her red, soft-kissed lips, and she exhales into the cot, giving a shuddery breath as a self-satisfied smile turns her mouth.

It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep.

* * *

Hurley greets Sloane a week after her release by walking into her garage with a yelled, _"Hey, Raven!"_

"Don't call me that," Sloane grunts from underneath her wagon, rolling out on a dolly. Hurley walks over to her, standing between her skinny legs that spill off the roller.

"That ain't your name?" Hurley asks, her grin going lopsided in faux confusion. She's still looking down at Sloane, expectant.

"Have you not figured out my name yet, lover?" Sloane asks. There's an unusual ease between the two of them, and Sloane doesn't know if she can let her guard go down as far as it has. Hurley's a cop after all, albeit an unorthodox one. "You've been tailing me for how long?"

Hurley, taken aback, flushes.

"Oh—" she says, gives a high, terse laugh. "Oh. Three months."

Sloane jerks up from the dolly and her head hits the bumper of her wagon; a harsh sound echoes through the room, paired with Sloane's angry yell.

 _"Fucking shit,"_ she screeches, kicking out and catching Hurley's ankle. The halfling tumbles down with a shout of her own, landing hard on Sloane's legs.

 _"Gods,_ Sloane!" Hurley whines as Sloane moves further out from underneath the dangerous edge of her wagon. "You fucking—"

She quiets suddenly under Sloane's hard glare.

"You know my name," she says softly — even with adrenaline and pain still in her veins; even with her sweaty palm pressed against her slow-swelling brow. Hurley immediately looks guilty. They're still on the grease-stained floor, legs tangled, and there's still a sense of hurt.

"Yeah, I..." she says. "It wasn't — it wasn't easy. I mean. It _was,_ but that's only 'cause I have authority? It was just going through the racing paperwork and lining things up, making connections—"

"Shut up," Sloane says, but there's no intended bite. She's suddenly weary, sagging against her wagon, wishing she could feel the purr of the engine; it's always a comfort to her, to feel it paired with that addicting adrenaline rush.

Hurley looks like she wants to say something — maybe apologize or make an excuse — but she doesn't. She gnaws her lip under her teeth, turning it a pretty cherry-red, and she doesn't make a sound. For that, Sloane is grateful.

* * *

"We need to get you a mascot," Sloane says. She's lying on her cot, smoking, and Hurley is sitting on the hood of her wagon. Neither likes what the other is doing, but an equilibrium has become an unfortunate necessity. They're both impulsive, rash wrecks of creatures, quick to light; Sloane, however, is a fast flame, while Hurley's glow gradually grows into a forest fire.

Hurley's also looking at Sloane's raven mask, turning the artistry over in her hands. It's more of an abstract raven, the long beak the majority of the thing with a feather-covered helmet and cowl attached to it.

"I haven't got a clue," Hurley admits with a wry grin. "I don't think much about spirit animals 'n' shit, honestly." She leans back against the windshield with a shrug, tossing the helmet back to Sloane. It bounces off her chest to the floor with a clatter.

"You need something cute," Sloane says. The halfling scoffs.

"Be serious."

"I _am._ Remember the bar? You looked like a fucking _dove,_ all prettied up to fuck someone you were going to arrest."

Hurley balks. _"We didn't—"_

"Quiet, love. You've got horns. No one pays any mind, though, because you've got a cute face. Then you turn with your horns all bloodied and — I dunno." She takes a drag from the blunt, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment before letting it go. It curls into the air, rises up to the ceiling. "You'd probably gore them and toss them off a cliff."

She pauses. "Bull?" She looks up to Hurley to pass the idea on, but she looks deep in thought, nose scrunched adorably in a way that has Sloane's heart twisting. Hurley's hair hasn't been brushed recently, so it seems, so it's turned into a knotty, curly mess.

"Never mind," Sloane says, swallowing through her dry mouth. "Bulls aren't cute."

* * *

They meet next at the racing track. Sloane simply figures it's the obvious place to learn racing. That's what she did: enter wagon, hit the gas, _drive._ She has no doubt that Hurley will pick up the nuances — she's a quick study, sharp witted, and smart.

Her ram's mask (courtesy of an hour of brainstorming while high) fits her perfectly, horns moving under her hair to extend from the back of her skull into graceful, elegant curls of bone. In celebration of _companionship,_ as unwilling as it was, Sloane's redesigned her own look — a matching raven's skull, off-white armor plating down her neck before it fades into navy-black at her collar.

There are no feathers this time. The white goes down her back, emulating spinal bumps, and when Sloane had gone looking for Hurley the day before, she found the lone lily in her office dead and withered.

"Are you sure about this?" Hurley asks from behind the steering wheel. She has an uncertain energy, keyed-up excitement and rubber band nervousness, tying together in an uncomfortable rush of nerves. "I've never driven—"

Sloane cuts her off with a hand on her head.

"Hit the gas and go," she instructs vaguely. "All you need to do is keep driving, turn, swerve when necessary, and I'll take care of everyone around us."

Hurley turns to give her a soft, incredulous smile. "You're a whack job," she says fondly. Sloane swallows around the stone in her throat.

"Alright," Hurley says then, in a quiet way that Sloane recognizes as an anxious pep talk. She's given herself her own fair share of them; wheel gripped tightly, grey knuckles over damp palms turning white, muttering to _someone_ to please let her escape with her life, let her succeed, let her stop living in the day-to-day hell that she'd been living in for far too long.

Someone must have heard her. She actually has a relatively steady income, if racing illegally counts as _steady._

It's taken Sloane a few weeks to warm up to Hurley enough to let her even slightly near her wagon, so seeing her, poised and at attention at the wheel, is an _extremely_ unfamiliar thing. It's only ever been Sloane. It's been her fending for herself for as long as she knows. That has just been what she _does_ — having partners weigh her down, so she's only had a few, mostly moving in groups and leaving as soon as waters got rough, or she simply tired of those she was with.

Hurley is different.

Hurley is so obviously different. The comparison is so stark that looking at the halfling hurts Sloane's eyes sometimes. None of Sloane's companions were quite so _easy,_ so thorough yet so inexperienced and eager, all at the same time. Hurley's someone new to Sloane entirely.

The horn sounds.

Hurley's head shoots up, her tan skin going slightly yellow.

"Oh Gods," she says, the give of her lips turning up in a wobbling smile. Sloane warms at the admittedly pathetic sight before climbing up the chute at the roof of the wagon, sliding into the hatch above. She has a full 360° view, though she's still trapped behind wooden walls.

 _"Sloane!"_ Hurley calls, sounding panicked, and then the wagon jerks forward — goes _too far_ and the front of it is crumpling like tissue against the hard metal of the wall in front of them.

The engine goes dead. Sloane's breathing does the same.

All the _work_ she had put in to the fucking thing, all the _hours_ and the _races_ — demolished by some half-pint who thought herself capable of anything and everything.

Sloane crawls down the chute, her lungs constricting painfully; she plants herself behind Hurley, still unmoving and standing behind the steering wheel. Her knuckles are pale.

Behind the rush of her own heart, Sloane hears cheering — engines growling — the _race._ She and Hurley aren't going anywhere.

"What the _fuck_ did you do," Sloane demands, a long-nailed hand digging into Hurley's shoulder blade. When she feels the trembling, she assumes it's her own hands.

She quickly figures otherwise when Hurley takes a deep, shaking inhale.

"I'm so sorry," she says. Her voice is small. Sloane finds she doesn't like that — Hurley is supposed to be boisterous and loud, not a meek, scared waif. "I am _so_ fucking sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment/kudos if u can! if u do, a dryad will emerge from the nearest plant and give u a thumbs up


	3. redbone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurley becomes a new near-permanent fixture of Sloane's garage, always there ready to plan and banter whenever she has days off. She often complains of her higher officer, Capt. Captain Bane, and how he breaths down her neck constantly — she can't help the decline in her work, she told him, her uncle is _sick._
> 
> Sloane felt a little affronted by her shitty excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, hmu with those spelling errors  
> i am delving into more character backstory, which is very risky, as i have only listened to petals to the metal Once and have close to 0 ability in retaining information

_The press following the Raven's humiliating and utter failure was widespread and thorough. There were rumors of cheating, at first — how could the Raven, win after win, suddenly wipe out now? The only answer was sabotage._

_However, in an exclusive pre-race interview, a member of the Sharkheads, one of the Raven's opponents in the race, revealed that the Raven was taking on an underling; her protégé, as it were. Thus far, in the three weeks since the Raven's catastrophe, she has supplied no comment about it._

_The Raven choosing to have a partner, a previously unknown racer known as the Ram, is interesting to say the least, as the Raven was known for being adamant about her "lone wolf" status. As she won every race before now by her lonesome, it comes as almost no surprise that her lucky streak would come to an end with the addition of a seemingly incompetent partner._

_Since the accident, the Raven and the Ram have not returned to the course. Many have speculated on the matter; embarrassment the most likely, while plotting a racing upheaval one of the more cult-favored ideas. As it is, the Raven has been in radio silence despite being one of the most accomplished wagon racers in the recent decade. It is possible that the Ram has sabotaged her chances of ever returning to racing — a severe enough blow to one's ego and reputation can be enough to topple them completely._

* * *

Sloane chews on her thumbnail. Hurley is beside her, silent. In front of them are countless papers — sketches, doodles, frantic shopping lists, ideas half-scribbled from the note to the table.

"What about a — an engine with a natural power source?" Hurley asked, the tip of her pen in the gap of her teeth. There's grease on her cheek. Sloane leans over and rubs it off, her thumb lingering far longer than necessary.

"Thanks," Hurley says, eyes light but expression unreadable.

"Natural resources never work with me," Sloane finally says after a long moment. "They don't provide enough speed."

"But do we _need_ to—" she presses, but Sloane cuts her off with a flippant wave.

 _"Yes,"_ she insists, exasperated. "Speed is the _top priority_. Fancy weapons don't matter if you're too far away to use them."

"But long-range—"

_"—is far more useful when you're ahead."_

Hurley's mouth twists.

"I know I'm not as experienced as you, Sloane, but you can at least listen to what I have to _say."_ Her expression is turning uncharacteristically sour, obviously fed up with the half-elf. Sloane has only seen this look once before — when the halfling had her in custody, and no one believed she had hunted down the Raven.

"Fine," sighs Sloane, leaning back into her chair. _"Fine._ Fuck it up."

Hurley smiles, just a bit, and launches into her ideas of _engines powered by magical energy are much more finicky than natural resources_ and _speed isn't necessarily a key component if you have ranged weapons and a steady acceleration_ and more and more and more that has Sloane nodding dumbly, struck by just _how much thought_ Hurley had put into this.

They only have mere weeks before the next race and they only have the bare bones of their new wagon in the works — a shell, the interior planned, but no mechanics; they are still arguing about those.

Hurley becomes a new near-permanent fixture of Sloane's garage, always there ready to plan and banter whenever she has days off. She often complains of her higher officer, Capt. Captain Bane, and how he breaths down her neck constantly — she can't help the decline in her work, she told him, her uncle is _sick._

Sloane felt a little affronted by her shitty excuse.

But it's how things are, for the time being. More often than not Hurley was sleeping in the discarded seats from Sloane's old wagon while Sloane herself took her (far less Hurley-scented) bed; they stay up late whenever Hurley comes, talking their approach, strategy, _anything._

* * *

"I signed us up in the slot for the next race," Sloane says as she pulls up the door of her garage. Just as she expected, Hurley is already sitting on the edge of Sloane's drafting table, chewing on something green and sketching with frustrated vigor. Upon seeing Sloane, she tucks her pen behind her ear and raises her eyebrows, unimpressed.

"No," she says, then grabs her pen again and continues to work. Sloane sighs.

"We're almost _done_ with the fuckin' thing, Ram," she insists, moving closer next to Hurley and pushing the paperwork over her writing. She doesn't mention how she feels an ignition-itch in every nerve, her body crying for a race — _anything_ to get her feeling normal again. Her reputation hardly matters now. She just wants that _one_ consistency. "It's contractually obligating, too. I signed it, so we gotta."

 _"I_ didn't sign it," Hurley says, wrinkling her nose and never moving her eyes from her own paper. "'Sides, we haven't figured out shit."

Sloane grunts. "You're so _detail, detail, detail,_ just — let it go for a sec, it's not like it would even be possible to follow through on every little moment we plan. You'll drive yourself fuckin' crazy, thinkin' of all the shit that _could_ happen." She runs a hand through her hair. Hurley finally looks up at her, still unmoved. "Sometimes you just gotta… go for it."

Hurley laughs, but she doesn't look too happy about it. "Like that worked out so well _last_ time," she snaps. "We didn't even make it out of the fucking gate, Sloane."

Something unpleasant sparks inside Sloane. She's grown to appreciate and deal with Hurley, _sure,_ but — something doesn't sit right with her. It feels ugly.

 _"Listen,"_ she says, her lip curling as she rips her gloves off and slams them on the table. "You fucked up. Alright. It fucking _happens,_ Hurley, but you're taking this way too _far."_

"I'm _not—"_

Sloane hits her fist against the table again to shut her up, sending papers flying.

"This is not a _you_ thing. It is an _us_ thing, which should have never fucking _happened,_ but it did so here we fucking are — we have to deal together in this bullshit. Just 'cause you're a fuckin' officer with an impending promotion doesn't mean you can take over _my_ area and _my_ career and _my life_ with your issues! It was me alone, and I dealed, and now it's us and I'm _still_ fucking dealing, Hurley." Sloane presses her lips tight, hands clenching tight enough until she feels her nails sink into the meat of her palm. Hurley is silent.

So Sloane sits, wearily scrubbing her face. "It was just me, a long fuckin' time ago. It was still _just me,_ and will be, before and during and after you. So don't keep with this — this _controlling_ shit you keep doing. I'm… I'm not afraid to go alone. That's been my life. It won't be somethin' new."

Hurley seems unfazed, but Sloane knows her tell; her hands are minutely clenching and unclenching, trembling.

"Fine," she says after a moment, trying to come off as flippant with a wave of her hand. "Do it your way."

"It can't just be _my way,_ for fuck's sake!" Sloane yells, dashing her hand over the table. A shallow wind wipes along it, and all the residual papers that had hung on whip across the room. Hurley's starting to look like she's feeling anything other than indifferent. She finally stands up, stands her ground.

"This isn't going to _end_ if one of our ways isn't the endgame," she says, jabbing a finger up near Sloane's ribcage. "All we do is argue, without submission, we'd get absolutely _nowhere."_

"Then we—" and then Sloane grabs a random paper from the floor, bites her thumb, and starts drawing with her blood. _Dramatics._

The muted, almost sickly-looking red covers a hesitant weapon design of Hurley's with swirls and long lines, sprays of curves and low, lazy circles. Ram's horns, backed by raven's wings, with a skull sitting between; their logo.

"—we gotta get _somewhere."_

Hurley smacks the side of Sloane's head.

Sloane can't even complain, because she's finally smiling again.

* * *

Before Sloane came to Goldcliff, she was a wanderer. She travelled, mostly, living on scraps and stray gold and others' kindness. She liked it; the freedom, the openness of the world.

She had hesitantly joined a group of mercenaries who had caught her stealing from them. They admired her rogue work. She was flattered, but mostly uncomfortable.

They were looking for something — something deep within a dark and overgrown forest, covering the lay of an abandoned civilization. Sloane had shuddered at the sight. The plant roots had swallowed buildings and homes inside out, but the architecture still looked recent — like this was a recent tragedy, not a wood grown over years longer than Sloane was alive.

At the center — the lowest in altitude and thickest in foliage — was a temple. It belonged to Silvanus, a Celtic god Sloane vaguely recalled. The temple, with its high clay pillars and slated roof, seemed untouched by destruction — but all the same, Sloane could nearly taste the magic within it.

"Go on," the tiefling of the party said, planting her hand between Sloane's shoulders and shoving her. Sloane had passed through the vague, sticky barrier of magic with every nerve inside her lighting. It wasn't pain; it was an incessant, desperate pull in her gut.

The drow followed her, hand on their hip as they stared up at the bronze symbol above the doorway.

"Hope Set won't flip his shit," they sighed, putting a hand on their brow. "Fuckin' temperamental as shit gods."

The rest of the small party filed through, Sloane at the forefront. Close next to her was a deva who had been hired to guide them, her face straight and head down. She must have been feeling the same prickling Sloane was; it felt like something was waiting.

She looked down at the deva; they locked eyes.

And then Sloane had woken up, covered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please clap  
> comments/kudos make lesbians happy, donate to the fund today


End file.
